


Tell Me That You Love Me...

by sudapigrafool



Category: 30 Seconds to Mars
Genre: Disfigurement, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-02-03 03:45:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudapigrafool/pseuds/sudapigrafool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Authorship: Polydeuces<br/>Notes: loosely based on a plot idea borrowed from author Marjorie Kellogg; some of the My Chemical Romance guys appear later and out of character; 2010 orig. (archived from LJ)<br/>Summary: One of Jared’s unbalanced stalkers finally catches up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

\---------

Afterwards, he thought about the warnings they’d had, the signals he’d missed, and the needless chances he took. But, bottom line, Jared never would have wanted to live his life any other way. In the end, it wasn’t a homemade bomb, or some cracked out conspiracy theorist with a sniper rifle. No, just an ordinary psycho holding a Starbuck’s cup that concealed a pint-sized plastic container full of industrial acid.

That’s how it went.

Shocking, really, because of all the potential risks in life he’d intentionally exposed himself to, this was never the sort of victim he’d imagined himself becoming.

There were the days of wondering if he’d keep the sight in his left eye. He would. And an even longer course of blurry, disjointed days filled with careful wound cleaning and re-bandaging, a process only made bearable through the prodigious use of medical morphine and nerve blocks. Sometimes Shannon was there clinging to his undamaged right hand, and sometimes it was a blessing that he wasn’t. Those were the times Jared gave himself permission to just let go and cry out. Knowing deep down, the truth was his brother probably suffered more during the first few weeks than he did.

Because the day it happened, Shannon wasn’t even with him. He’d let Jared go on ahead, alone, to another ubiquitous, innocuous radio interview the day before a concert. Nothing they hadn’t done a hundred times before, right? Strictly routine. He’d arrived, pre-announced, in front of the station with one of the record label’s PR advance men and a low-level assistant from their tour management team. Both friendly enough, but hardly friends. More like overseers with a vested interest in him as a commodity. And no security. No, of course not, Jared wouldn’t hear of it. Didn’t ever think it was necessary.

The sun had been high in the sky that afternoon, the air crystal clear and brilliant white. He’d stepped out of the van onto a scorching Chicago sidewalk lined with eager faces. There was a brief rustle and squeal of excitement, and the sound of voices calling his name. He remembered smiling a little into the thrust of cell phones being pointed in his direction, when suddenly bodies were lurching forward to his left. They shoved and stumbled over the crude rope barrier that marked his path to the entryway, spilling down at his feet in an ungainly heap; a struggling, grasping tangle of humanity, all arms and legs writhing like… snakes.

Snake. He’d had just that one moment of imagery and intuition to warn him. Then came the violent flash of motion and splash of wet before the burning began. At first, it seemed like nothing worse than a rude dousing with frappuccino, and his anger flared. Except, almost instantly, the escalating wail of female voices began shrilling all around him.

To Jared, the rest was a blur of sirens and his own agonized screaming, most of which he’d forgotten now, thankfully. Drowned out in the blessed stream of sedatives they’d kept pumping into him at the hospital.

Later, there would be those choppy, stuttering videos on YouTube to help fill in the blanks. The ones Shannon tortured himself with, watching over and over again.

\-- stop --


	2. Recovering a sense of autonomy (Step 1)

At the time, in the immediate aftermath, Shannon figured he’d been about as paranoid for Jared’s safety as it was possible to be without going pathological himself. Or maybe he’d already stepped over that line and just hadn’t noticed. Three numbingly surreal weeks of shuttling back and forth between his lonely, silent hotel room and the University of Chicago Burn Center, followed by a harrowingly public flight home to Los Angeles for the hospital transfer had left him hyper-vigilant and twitching with aggression. No matter how much effort the staff at O’Hare and the airline had put into insuring Jared’s privacy, it still seemed like there were cameras everywhere. Stalking him.

By the time they were settled into their first class seats, Shannon’s teeth ached from the hours he’d spent clenching them. Adrenaline churned under his skin making him sweat with the effort of not lashing out and punching somebody. Probably the wrong somebody, he was that much over the edge. Restlessly, he fidgeted with his air vent control feeling like he couldn’t fucking _breathe_. He was in the mood to kill for a cigarette, or five or six, that he knew he wasn’t going to get for hours yet. Next to him, Jared shifted his bum gingerly on the plush upholstery, trying to find a comfortable position that wouldn’t put too much pressure on his half-healed graft scar.

"Do you need your meds?" Shannon mumbled quietly.

Jared froze. "No."

"You sure?" If the point of all his brother’s studious silences had been about trying not to attract Shannon’s anxious attention, he could chalk that up as a fail.

"Yes," Jared whispered. "I’ll let you know, okay?" Then he reached out with his tremorous, bandaged left hand to pull down the window shade.

Much, much later that evening, when they finally got to the Grossman Center and checked Jared in, they were both physical wrecks of nerves and fatigue. It took a few more hours, though, for Shannon to be able to drag himself away from Jared’s bedside and home to their dark, empty house.

The next day, the second shock wave of ‘entertainment news’ hit with a vengeance. Its storm troopers greeted Shannon outside the hospital entrance with microphones and cameras rolling. Even while he was thinking some of them undoubtedly meant well, he wasn’t in any frame of mind to be the least bit gracious about it. So he wasn’t.

Upstairs, in his private room, Jared’s nurse checked his vitals, watched him swallow his antibiotics, and offered to turn on the TV for him.

Before Jared could even reply for himself, Shannon said, "No." Just like he had at the hospital in Chicago. Yeah, exactly the same way. Blinking slowly with his one good eye, Jared looked aside wearily and didn’t even ask why.

\----------

Now, standing outside of a nondescript three-story, brick façade on the Lower East Side, Shannon thought those were probably some of the reasons his brother had felt the need to get out of LA and put an entire continent of distance between them. The accumulation of their combined damage was just too much for him to bear and be able to make any kind of decent recovery.

It was a ground floor apartment with bars on the windows, which was only the latest thing Shannon hated about it. The first being it was on the other side of the country, and the second on account of the neighborhood, which Shannon had once had a passing acquaintance with in his youth. The doctors Jared had picked for his continuing care Shannon couldn’t argue with. The Hearst Burn Center was one of the best in the world.

But…

"New York? You wanna go live in New York?" Shannon had demanded incredulously, staring down at his brother where he'd knelt by his suitcase on the floor.

"Anonymously," Jared responded, folding clothes quietly, chin tucked to his chest.

"Yeah?" Pffft. "What are the chance of that?" Shannon huffed.

Even indoors these days, Jared always wore layers. Always wore a hoodie and always kept the hood up, covering his face. Shannon could barely see the tip of his nose, let alone enough to gauge his emotions.

But this time, "I’d say they’re pretty good," Jared replied, surprising Shannon by lifting his head and staring right back at him, turning his full face into the light. His expression was unreadable; his left side unrecognizable.

Finally, it was beginning to sink in how serious his brother was. A slow swell of panic threatened to close Shannon’s throat. "Jared," he groaned, nearly mute. "Don’t go."

"It’s already done. I’m using the name Metrejon, so it’s just a little bitty lie." He smiled grimly, one corner of his mouth sliding up slightly, the other pulling uncertainly at the scarred and puckered skin along his cheek. "Don’t follow me," he added solemnly. "I’ll call when I’m ready to see people again."

For a minute, Shannon thought God had called off the law of gravity and abolished air. There was static swimming in front of his eyes and his ears were ringing.

"At least let me take you to the airport," he swallowed, offering a compromise, mind racing to retrench his position.

"No, limo service will be here in the morning. Already taken care of." Jared shook his head.

It had taken more restraint than Shannon normally gave himself credit for not to rave and scream all night. Not to nail Jared’s bedroom door shut while he slept, although he did entertain fantasies.

Instead, he sat in the dark not even pretending to be asleep, craving the soothing burn and remembered taste of whiskey, smoking endless cigarettes, and for the first time in a long, long time, he wept like his heart would break.

\-- stop --


	3. Recovering a Sense of Identity (Step 2)

In Chicago, two days after he’d been attacked, Jared knew Tomo had come to see him at the hospital in the ICU, on the Burn Unit, with sterile precautions still in force. By then, the rest of the tour had been cancelled and their crew and musicians sent home. Even Emma was already on a westbound plane, but Tomo had remained, immovable, insisting on seeing him before leaving for L.A.

Jared’s level of consciousness, however, had been barely above the threshold of a coma, and all he could remember now was Tomo standing by his bedside, gowned and masked, all grave black eyes and intensity. A looming white apparition of Death wearing gloves and a strange, puffy cap over his long, unruly hair. His beautiful hair.

"You look like a mushroom," Jared had slurred, and would have giggled only he couldn’t actually smile because of the nerve block and the swelling. And besides, by the time the words had exited his mouth, he was out like a light again.

Not that the pain ever left him, even in his twilight sleep. Even then, it tore at him like a great pitiless bird. Like Prometheus and his eagle; a swirling black mass of wings and feathers sharp as blades tearing his flesh into a million little pieces.

So this, he decided, was what Hell was like, burning away in his own personal corner of Hades. Fact to note: it was nothing at all like a metaphor.

One day, which one he wasn’t sure, Shannon came and sat in the chair by his bed and solemnly told him how they’d got the guy who did it. A not too long, not very involved tale Jared had quite a bit of trouble following nonetheless.

Except for his absolute clarity about the business of Shannon’s very real need for some kind of justice, or closure, or catharsis. Or revenge. Pick one.

Why are you telling me this? Jared wondered, breathing shallowly, fighting the constant background noise of screaming nerve endings. What on earth does this have to do with…me?

"Shannon?…"

Then, the nurse came and put something in his I.V.

\---------

Inside, Jared’s apartment wasn’t nearly the early twentieth-century New York City dungeon Shannon had feared it would be, but it was kind of colorless. Modestly gentrified, airy spacious rooms with nine-foot ceilings, somehow it still managed to be awkwardly cramped and stoically muted.

His brother had spent over a month burrowing into this place and entrenching himself in his new routines before finally inviting Shannon to come for a visit. Now that Shannon was actually here, it was alarming how few traces of Jared’s presence he could find. Not wanting to be a burden, or to overstep this first tentative contact after so long a wait, he’d booked himself into a familiar hotel where they used to stay whenever… well.

There were two roommates, both currently trying to be as quietly unobtrusive as possible while Jared made coffee in their efficiently remodeled kitchen. Gerard was the one in the wheelchair. His drafting table and art supplies occupied most of the space next to the front window in the under lit parlor where Shannon sat waiting like an honored guest. Or, an Adult Protective Services officer, maybe, it was hard to guess which. On the meager warmth of sunlight slanting in between the window blinds, he watched a scattering of dust motes curl silently upward like an army of angels. The muffled sounds of street life and traffic bled in from outside. From the back of the house, somewhere in the kitchen, he heard Jared drop a spoon.

Ray was the other one.

"Ray plays a mean guitar," Jared offered by way of introduction. His battered left hand had quavered self-consciously as he held it close to his chest.

"Cool," Shannon said, forcing a rigid smile out around the cruel twist of irony, fighting the need to snatch his brother up and bundle him straight back to Los Angeles and home where he belonged.

When the coffee appeared at last, it was because Ray brought it on a tray with Jared trailing along behind him, wearing those same skinny jeans as always and an oversized black hoodie shuttering his face.

\---------

Jared stood hunched over peering silently through the back door window when Gerard stopped just inside the kitchen doorway, his clever eyes carefully surveying the afternoon’s wreckage.

"Pasta for dinner, alright?" Jared asked, turning and straightening his shoulders.

"Alright, I’ll get it started, if you like. I can boil the water, but you’ll have to drain it." Gerard’s wheelchair was already maneuvering towards the cabinets and their handicap accessible sink.

"I’ll get Ray for that part," Jared replied, still unequal to the task of two-handed lifting. Let alone facing scalding water. Somehow, Gerard had made the routine act of preparing the meal sound like another sort of challenge entirely.

"He coming back?" Shannon had left just fifteen minutes earlier, and truthfully, Jared was surprised Gerard had considered restraining himself for even this long before grilling him about the day’s events.

"Yes, he just needed a little..." Breather? "…time. To secure the neighborhood." Jared added wryly.

"He loves you. Oh! Here, help me." Water was sloshing over the sides of the pasta pot as Gerard attempted dragging it from the sink. Together, they each grabbed a handle and lugged it onto the stove. Nimbly, Gerard snapped on the gas burner.

"So that’s your brother. Shannon."

"Yes." For once, Jared’s hood was down. He stared across the stove top at the quivering water and ice blue flame beneath.

"You know, when you turn to the left like that you still look like yourself," Gerard stated firmly, eyes tracing a distant image over Jared’s ravaged skin. "I know who you really are."

Jared kept his eyes focused steadily on the not yet simmering pot, drawing in a long slow breath and counting his heartbeats. "Oh good," he replied calmly. "That makes one of us."

\-- stop--


	4. Recovering a Sense of Power (Step 3)

There were things to be grateful for. None of the acid got into his mouth. He hadn’t swallowed any, or inhaled it into his lungs. He didn’t have any laryngeal damage or swelling, hadn’t needed to be intubated.

He could eat normally for the most part, except for the scars pulling around the left side of his mouth which meant he drooled occasionally, and sometimes his food had a tendency to slip out at the corner.

So, naturally, he didn’t want anyone watching him eat. An attitude that led Shannon to the panicky conclusion he probably wasn’t. Eating. And if Jared had felt like being perfectly honest, he’d have admitted the thought had crossed his mind.

But, strike that idea with his nutritionist hovering over his hospital tray at every meal the way she did.

"You need to eat to heal," she’d stated bluntly. "I can order pureed meals, but frankly I don’t think you need them. You just need to work _with_ your therapist a little better and learn to cope."

Because, yeah, there was all that, too. The ongoing swallowing evaluations and OT, in case the muscles in his neck and throat were healing up too stiff and tight. Contracture, they called it.

He’d tried glowering at her silently, but with only one and a half eyebrows, _the look_ wasn’t nearly as effective as it once had been. And since he generally declined to speak these days, that was all the protest he deigned to muster, because the sound of his own slurred speech was too disturbing to him.

"If you can’t take in enough nutrition on your own, I’ll have the doc order a peg tube," she threatened conversationally. "I do it all the time, so don’t think I won’t. Families tend to believe me when I say it’s necessary." Her eyes bored into him without flinching.

"Okay, I’ll eat," he mumbled.

"Good." Her pen scribbled a notation in his chart. "Because your brother’s so scared to death right now, he’ll agree to just about anything."

\---------

"I want you eating a better source of protein and more of it," she told him after surveying the results of his most recent lab tests.

He shook his head, wincing at the familiar, painful tug along the side of his neck. Vegan was part of his identity, he wasn’t giving that up, too.

"Eggs? Whole milk? Yogurt? We can start slow." He’d refused the Ensure pudding she’d ordered because of the dairy content. Why were they still discussing this? What didn’t she get?

"Cholesterol," he squeezed out between practically motionless lips.

"Oh, that’s right," she muttered, flipping through the pages of his health history. "You’ve had some problems with that in the past. Hm…" She stopped nagging long enough to read for a minute, then continued. "So-o-o, you’ll all but kill yourself with food for a film role, but now I can’t even get you to eat enough to save your own skin. Literally."

Jared could feel every millimeter of the murderous frown that was struggling to form across his maimed features.

"Look, nobody’s going to force you to eat meat again if you absolutely refuse, but it would help. A lot. I’m ordering you a piece of fish with your dinner tray, so think about it, okay?"

He stared at her, determined to appear implacable if such a thing was still possible.

On her way out she passed Shannon in the hall and stopped to offer him a small, encouraging smile. "He’s pretty angry with me," she said, "but in a way that’s good."

\---------

"Tell you what. We’ll trade off," Shannon offered. "I’ll give up eating fish, and you eat it instead. For as long as it takes. Won’t be forever, right?"

Jared didn’t mean to sigh, but the sound slipped out anyway.

"The tuna subs, the sushi," Yeah, that part was gonna hurt. "Everything. I can go vegan for a while. I’ve done it before," his brother shrugged. "No big deal."

This. This was the part Jared hated. That Shannon was wheedling and bargaining with him, trying to take all the responsibility on himself.

Just, stop…

"So, if you eat the fish and I don’t -- the net impact on Mother Earth will be, like, exactly the same," Shannon reasoned.

Don’t. Do not treat me like a child. Jared had tried really hard not to look up at his brother, sitting there with his heart wide open and aching, and all his need and anxiety leaking out of his eyes like tears.

"Jared, please?"

Fuck, this was so unfair. Sullenly, Jared lifted his fork and poked unhappily at the flaky, white flesh on the plate in front of him.

Okay. Fine.

\-- stop--


	5. Recovering a Sense of Possibility (Step 4)

They’ll use pressure garments, they tell him, to help control the scarring.  
  
A concept that’s almost unfathomable to Shannon, because in his experience pressure and Jared are a pretty dangerous, very explosive combination that rarely results in greater flexibility or less scarring. Usually what you get is more breakage.  
  
In fact, Shannon could easily tell them whenever his brother Jared is under a lot of pressure, the way he usually responds has a tendency to get all snarled up with how there's certain things in his life he’s never been able to talk about. And yet, he still has incredibly, painfully, few inhibitions about standing in front of a sold out concert audience singing about them…yeah. Those are the times Jared chooses to tell the whole world how much it’s tearing him apart, a truth about which Shannon harbors no doubts. He’s seen most of the episodes of Jared’s journey through this mortal existence that have made a strip mine of his inner workings. Shannon’s been there for all of it.  
  
As for the process of molding the mask, Jared’s no stranger to the concept. He’d done similar things himself, years before in an art class. But, just the thought of it now in this context is so unbroachable he issues a flat out, "no." Until they tell him they'll have a technician specialist come laser scan his face.  
  
And that procedure sounds interesting enough for Jared to permit it. His eyes seem a little brighter, more optimistic, and curious as the laser’s slivery red finger slides over his cheeks and forehead, across the smooth and the ravaged skin, over the pale and puckered purple, and he’s asking the technician pointed questions about how and why. There will be a series of masks over time, he’s told, to adjust for the progress of healing and change. To which Jared nods a thoughtful assent.  
  
"Artifacts," he mumbles in something like satisfaction.  
  
A visual record of the unknown distance he will travel from here to whatever comes next.  
  
Shannon dares to feel a moment of relief.

\---------

When the mask is delivered it’s transparent and impersonal with holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth, and hopefully enough room for an expansive personality. It covers Jared’s entire face even though the only part that needs treatment is the left, and something less than half. As soon as they snug it into place, Jared’s whole demeanor turns still and tense and he says, "I can’t breathe."  
  
That’s just nerves, he’s reassured, and they know it feels restrictive at first, but he’ll get used to it.  
  
No, he says. Try, they counter. Give it time.  
  
He’s lying back in his hospital bed, quaking under his blanket, trying. Shannon’s warm hand slides up his arm. He thinks Jared’s breaths, coming in quick, sharp rasps are highly suggestive of impending hyperventilation. "Maybe they can give you something?" he ventures.  
  
The words are barely out of his mouth before Jared starts screaming and clawing at his face. There’s an interminable moment of panic during which Shannon stabs a finger at the call button, then wonders why he bothered. It’s not as if they can’t hear the shrill, agonized sounds his brother is making all the way down the hall at the nurse’s station. And probably upstairs on the next floor, and all the fucking way back to China, very likely. He’s wrestling with Jared’s hands trying to keep him from tearing himself up any worse, while the frantic shrieking is taking off the top of his head, the awful sound of it dropping straight to the pit of his gut where the bottom feels like it’s falling out of Shannon’s world. Other hands, not his own, come and carefully release the straps on the mask and take it away.  
  
Shannon’s shaking now, too, just like Jared, and there’s a bit of a gap in his memory over the part where he scrambled onto the bed so he could hold his brother in his arms and rock him. Because except for maybe when he was a little kid, Jared’s never screamed like that in his life. He’s always under such tight control, keeping it all tamped down somewhere deep inside, saving up energy and events for a performance, probably. Like a well trained Parthenope, there and waiting to do his bidding. But now everything, everything is open, raw, and exposed, and there are no places left where Jared can imprison a scream.  
  
Minutes later a nurse comes by and gives Jared a shot to help relax him. She’s the nice one, Shannon realizes, who never says a word about hospital rules whenever she finds him out of his chair, lying along the last narrow strip of the mattress. So close to the edge, and snugged up tight against his brother.  
  
"It’s alright, honey," she whispers, massaging the spot where she stuck Jared with the needle. "If you can’t wear the mask, we’ll try something else."  
  
Later that day, a new pill comes along with all the others. A blue one, for anxiety, which Jared swallows like the rest.

\---------

"How did you find us? I mean, find out that we were looking for another roommate? While you were still in LA?" So far, Gerard has followed him everywhere he’s gone in the apartment with the exception of the bathroom.  
  
"My social worker."  
  
"Oh. At the burn center?" Always asking questions, always expecting answers.  
  
"She knew I had some limitations. And was arranging for the transfer of my case." First floor, handicapped accessible...  
  
"Yeah, that makes sense," Gerard says, agile fingers tapping out a distracted rhythm on the arm of his chair.  
  
Jared envies him his ability to think any of this makes sense. Maybe it’s something that comes with time.  
  
"Is this all your stuff?" Gerard nods at the single suitcase full of clothes and toiletries, orthotics and pills that Jared has been unpacking carefully and methodically.  
  
"There’s some more that I shipped. Didn’t try to bring everything on the plane." His furnished room is neat and clean. Adequate. Nondescript and slightly used looking. Comfortable and somehow, not. But to be truthful, decorating isn’t something Jared believes he could force himself to care about right now anyway.  
  
"Good thinking," Gerard is nodding. "So, what kinda stuff do you like to eat?"  
  
"Well, I don’t eat meat." Jared enunciates each word very deliberately, being careful not to slur. Fighting with the tight, rigid flesh tugging back on the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Vegetarian? Hey, you like pizza?"  
  
"I, um, kind of have a special diet I’m supposed to…"  
  
"Okay. We can get groceries delivered."  
  
Starting with the six a.m. trip to the airport, Jared feels like his already long, stressful day is getting steadily longer. He reaches for his last pair of jeans before closing his bag and…  
  
"You shy about your scars?"  
  
… freezes.

_Shy?_ About catastrophic facial disfigurement?  
  
"I…uh…" Jared stutters.  
  
"Can I see?"  
  
Gerard stares at him, waiting patiently, expression as open as an eight-year-old child’s.  
  
"Sure," Jared breathes, lifting his tired, trembling hands to pull back his hood. Thinking, well, what the hell. Why prolong the inevitable.  
  
"It’s pretty bad," Gerard tells him with a curt bob of his head, seemingly satisfied.  
  
"I know that," Jared snaps in a bit of shock, emotions a little numb. Did Gerard think he didn’t know that?  
  
"I’ll show you my back sometime, but not today," Gerard offers. "I can see you’ve had enough for today. You want something to drink? I could make us some coffee." He backs his wheelchair into the hall and begins steering himself towards the kitchen.  
  
"Usually, I just have spring water," Jared calls after him. Maybe, he considers, it’s the utter lack of drama that’s actually the most disconcerting part.  
  
"We have Mountain Dew!" Gerard hollers back over his shoulder, already in front of the refrigerator door.  
  
"Okay," replies Jared, without thinking, and he wanders out his bedroom following the sound of Gerard’s voice.  
  
  
\--stop--


	6. Recovering a Sense of Safety (Step 5)

Jared’s waited two weeks for his first consultation at The Burn Center and today is the day. Two weeks of lingering in the shadows of their front doorway trying to convince himself it’s okay to go outside. Then, consoling himself that tomorrow will be soon enough, he’ll try again tomorrow. Well, tomorrow is here.

Ray tells him he can take the crosstown bus, then transfer to the M31 and that will take him right to the front entrance of the hospital, but it would probably be easier to take a taxi.

Safer, too, Jared thinks. Shannon, he knows, would very likely insist. And with that thought, instantly, in the back of Jared’s mind a daydream begins unfolding. It's an all-consuming little waking nightmare that begins with his brother bundling him into the back seat of a cab that’s pulled up to the walk in front of their building.

Imaginary Shannon is holding the door open for Jared while squinting suspiciously at the driver and instructing the man where to deliver him before Jared can even open his mouth to speak for himself. In response, the taxi guy is staring indifferently out the front windshield, nodding and grunting and not even looking at Jared, because this is New York where people never actually look at each until they absolutely have to, and even then a whole lot less than you might think. That hasn’t stopped Shannon from making Jared wear his hoodie pulled well up over his head though, obscuring his crumpled face. Plus, he's insisted Jared wear a pair of mirrored aviators to shield his bad eye. And if this is somehow supposed to make him less conspicuous, that’s an utter fail in Jared’s opinion, because now he looks just like some fucking serial killer trying to pass unnoticed.

All this time, Ray’s been waiting patiently for a response, but Jared hasn’t been paying the least bit of attention. His fantasy has been gaining speed and now it’s starting to run away with him. In his head, Jared’s still huddled in the middle of that cab’s backseat with his knees together and his gimpy hand cradled in his lap as the door slams shut, and Shannon is leaning in the half-open window still barking orders.

Everything fades, however, as soon as Ray starts speaking again. "We’ve kinda figured out which taxi services are good and who to ask for," he offers.

He means for Gerard, whose phobia about cars and bus transportation is still a thing to be reckoned with. "I’ll come with you your first time, if you want." Ray’s words are tentative, but Jared can tell he’s trying to be encouraging. "It’s just that…" and he stops speaking, leaving his unfinished sentence dangling in the air. Ray has a poorly controlled seizure disorder, and whenever he’s in a situation that gets too stressful for him, Jared knows it can sometimes trigger an episode. Usually that simply means a minute or less of meaningless hand gestures and staring into space, but for Ray there’s always the tension of embarrassing himself and the people he’s with.

Jared could care less about any of that, it’s being alone and vulnerable in a public space surrounded by strangers that he can’t face. Personally, Jared would love to be able to take the bus by himself, but he’s too afraid.

"Can we stop for tacos on the way home?" he asks hopefully in a round about way of accepting Ray’s offer. There’s a place just two blocks from where they live that Gerard never stops talking about, and Jared’s never been.

"Sure," Ray grins. "If you’re feeling up to it."

"And then walk back the rest of the way?" Jared’s voice sounds small and pathetically eager even to his own ears. How sad, he thinks to himself. Such tiny pleasures and ambitions for a man who once used to travel the world on his own. The man he used to be, strong and invincible, and now like someone he doesn’t even know. Like someone he thinks about in the third person.

"Great," says Gerard who, typically, has been somewhere close by listening the whole time. "You can bring me takeout."

\---------

Shannon knows it’s not helping when he sits at home in front of the computer for half the day watching his email and hitting refresh, while at the same time obsessively checking his phone. Because he might have accidentally turned it off. He could have missed something. He knows this kind of behavior is isolating, and that isolating himself isn't good for him. It's a dangerous thing to be doing when he's already depressed and lonely and under so much stress. And it’s not as if his friends have forgotten about him either. They haven’t. They call all the time, which sometimes is almost annoying, and absolutely he would love to leave the house to go ride with them in the hills, gladly, if he wasn’t afraid of being out of signal range when Jared’s call finally comes.

Shannon has become a prisoner of his own anticipation, waiting for The Day Jared Wants to Get In Touch, and he knows it. He’s perfectly aware of that. He has a tendency to get angry with the people who point it out to him, though, unfortunately. Because they mean well.

But, it’s true, it isn’t healthy.

He needs to calm down, take a deep breath, a step back. He needs to stop listening to the tick, tick, ticking time bomb in his chest that he thinks is the state of his relationship with his brother. Nothing’s broken, nothing's gonna blow up in his face, that’s just his imagination running away with him. That’s fear. It’s the sound of his heart breaking a little more with every passing hour, sure, but Shannon has managed to survive a broken heart before.

Only those other times, he had Jared to lean on to help him do it. And now more than ever, he still needs to get it together.

So, Shannon _tries_.

He tries because sometimes you have to push for ‘normal’ even when you’re not feeling it yet. You have to "fake it to make it," or whatever it is those recovery programs say. When people ask him how he's doing, he tells them, "Fine, thanks. And you?" without actually blurting out how much everything’s been weighing on his soul.

Shannon needs to have a little faith, and that’s probably the biggest problem right there, because right now Shannon only has faith in the things he can grasp hold of himself and Jared’s on the other side of the country. Totally out of reach.

Shannon knows Jared is safe, he knows he’s taking care of himself, that thanks to his social workier he has nice roommates and good doctors. In his head, when he's thinking straight, he knows Jared simply needs a little more time.

But too often Shannon overthinks things with his emotions, and it's not like he doesn't realize that, he just can't seem to make himself stop this time. It’s Shannon life that’s threatening to spin out of control.

　

\--stop--

 


	7. Recovering a sense of Connection (Step 6)

Gerard is in love with Ray and that’s a plain fact, Jared is sure of it. Despite the damage he suffered he’s not blind, his eyesight is as clear as ever and his insight, whenever he can get out of his own head for a minute, is crystal. He can still read people as well as before. Maybe even a little better.

He just has to forget about himself long enough to do it. Stop feeling self-conscious or self-pitying, or however it is he’s starting to think about his own brand of self-involved drama these days, and take a genuine look around.

Which is what he did today on the way home from the trip to the Burn Center while they were walking along West 56th, less than two blocks from the apartment. Ray was carrying their dinner in a takeout bag -- assorted enchiladas and pork tamales that, admittedly, looked interesting but no thanks. Jared’s nose had twitched in a sideways wrinkle, "I’ll pass." He was willing to try the black beans and rice thing, though. Oh, and guacamole. Couldn’t get out the door without guacamole. There had been fish empanadas on the menu board, too. They’re not just for Lent anymore, Ray informed him. Everyday you had to ask the proprietor what kind of fish they were using, shrimp or tuna or what, because it was always something different. Today it was sea bass and Ray tried to talk Jared into trying them, but Jared said, "some other time." He’d already resigned himself to consuming a small, unavoidable amount of cheese with his veggie enchilada. The salsa verde sounded good, though. And the organic blue chips. From the depths of his hoodie Jared murmured his interest to Ray, who ordered some for him.  
  
Maybe, Jared figured, on a night when Shannon came for a visit he’d eat one of those fish turnover thingies in front of him, just so Shannon would know he was keeping his end of their bargain. A bargain Jared hadn't quite consented to willingly. It had been more like yielding to another one of Shannon’s desperate, heavy-handed demands for his surrender. A begrudging capitulation he'd made after being emotionally ambushed in their war of attrition over his recovery diet. But at least, Jared thought, seeing him eat the fish would make his brother happy. And he did want his brother to be happy again. Somehow, someday. It was just so hard to think about being face to face with Shannon right now.  
  
"I’m starving," Ray admitted after the long, tedious afternoon they’d spent at Presbyterian Hospital. "Yeah, me too," Jared had agreed. And tired. Truthfully overtired, something he knew wasn’t really good for either of them. Once, Ray had listed for him all the different ordinary everyday stresses that could trigger one of his seizures. Things like fatigue and anxiety and low blood sugar, but Jared had never actually seen it happen. The only kind of seizures Jared had ever seen Ray have were the little absence seizures that occurred almost daily, and which he was used to by now. One minute Ray would be talking to him like normal, and the next he’d be having an out of body experience. Then, suddenly he’d be back again. All very polite and low key, although Ray had warned Jared to stand clear of the occasional errant arm movement, just to be safe.  
  
This time was nothing like those others, though. Today was totally different.  
  
Ray knew it was coming, he’d had just enough of a warning sign to say "Oh," and to hand Jared the bag he was carrying with their dinner, because he didn’t want to drop it. Seriously, that’s what he'd been chiefly concerned about.  
  
"What do I do?" Jared had asked him, grabbing at the flimsy plastic handle with his good hand and sliding his weak one under Ray’s elbow. Like that was gonna help. Jared's arm muscles on his left side were still strong enough, but his splints and compression glove would make it nearly impossible for him to get a decent grip on anything. Oh, Jesus god. _What do I do?_  
  
"Over here," Ray’s words already sounded strained and slurred, and his foot began dragging as he listed his way towards the curb.  
  
"Ray?" Jared could hear the choke of alarm in his own voice as he clung to his friend, trying to move with him and support him, but, _"Ray? Wait…"_ his instinct that they should not go near the street was pretty strong. _"Hold up…"_  
  
Ray was headed for the closest lamppost though, not the street, and fighting Jared’s good intention to stop him every step of the way. Once he’d reached his destination, he grasped hold of the pole and its cast iron art deco solidity, hugging himself to it for dear life. "Okay," Jared exhaled, finally comprehending. "Is this good?" The question wheezed out of him in a panicky spasm of breath and unnatural pitch. Not quite like actual talking Jared realized, but he thought he’d managed to make himself understood. Only Ray didn’t answer.  
  
Everything was happening too fast. "You okay?" Jared had just asked him again when he felt the sudden onset of shuddering. Desperately, he coiled his weak fingers into a twist of Ray’s shirt and struggled to clench a fist over it, wondering if he was going to be able to keep them both on their feet, even allowing for the fact that Ray was actually more rigid than flailing. Because, still…  
  
"Ray?" The bag with dinner dropped unceremoniously by their feet as Jared threw his other arm around Ray and the pole he was clinging to. He clamped his undamaged forearm down tightly over his friend. "I got you," Jared gasped, hoping to be reassuring, "I’m right here," but Ray’s eyes were glazed and gone already, rolling upward under heavy lids. _Oh god, oh god, don’t fucking panic,_ Jared swore at himself. _Do. Not. Panic._ These things passed on their own, according to Ray. Eventually. 

Jared tried repositioning himself to shield Ray from the prying eyes of strangers, from whoever might be walking by, and then began counting off seconds not knowing what else to do. _One, two, three…_ Mainly to calm himself while he fretted over how long he should wait for the seizure to stop of its own accord -- fifteen seconds? thirty? -- before… well, panicking! For real. _…four, five, six…_ That’s when it dawned on him this sort of thing must have happened to Ray before. Maybe a lot, possibly, and that Ray had known what to do. _…seven, eight, nine…_ He’d had a simple plan, and basically this was it, even if he hadn’t bothered to share with Jared _…ten, eleven…_  
  
And this, Jared suddenly realized through his fear and numbness, was Ray's life.  
  
_…eighteen, nineteen, twenty…_ A thin trail of saliva began slithering its way down Ray’s chin. Even assuming that might be normal, it was still alarming to watch. Jared was clutching Ray so tightly they were both vibrating in unison, Jared mostly from his own anxiety. Why the hell had he never discussed any of this with Ray in more detail? Why didn’t he have the faintest fucking clue what to do next? They were too exposed, too vulnerable, standing out in the open on a public sidewalk where, God knew, anything could happen. And sometimes did. Jared clearly recognized the buzzing in his head and the pounding in his chest as the precursor to a genuine panic attack, the onset of which would render him completely fucking useless. _…no, no, no…_ Oh, fuck, when had he stopped counting? Was it seconds ago or minutes? Was it time to dial 911 yet?  
  
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the seizure ended. Ray came back to himself. His sudden stillness was like the passing of a storm, and he slumped heavily into Jared as his exhausted muscles went slack. For a moment, the only sound Jared could hear was his own sharp breaths echoing above the fading swell of ringing in his ears. The rest of the world seemed bizarrely calm and quiet. Slowly, Ray turned and peered into the shadow under Jared’s hood, his eyes tracing urgently over the shuttered features hidden there. Jared felt their curious intensity slide over his face and steeled himself against their frank, imposing intimacy. He saw the flash of recognition when Ray realized, with relief, he knew who this man was… "I’m here," Jared whispered… and then witnessed the small, unmasked flinch of humiliation as reality set in. Ray’s gaze dropped down and away. For a long moment they stood together silently before Jared spoke again, "Are you okay?"  
  
"Tired," Ray mumbled. He looked it. "How long?" he asked. How long had he been seizing.  
  
_Like, a fucking century maybe? Or two, while your life flashed before my eyes._ "Probably only about a minute or so," Jared replied softly.  
  
Ray started to push away from the lamppost, still leaning on Jared’s shoulder. "Let’s go home."  
  
"Don’t you want to rest first? A little?" Because Jared felt pretty damn sure he wouldn’t be able to catch Ray if he tipped over with exhaustion at this point. More than likely they’d both end up lying on the pavement in a puddle of spicy beans and Mexican rice. Which was precisely the objection he blurted out next.  
  
But, "Home first, then sleep," Ray groused determinedly, and as Jared gathered up their take-out, he could only hope Ray had been through this part before, too, and was making a good decision.  
  
When they got to the house, Gerard was watching from the front doorway, waiting for them.  
  
"I had a feeling," was all he said, frowning, as Jared held the door open.  
  
"We got dinner," Ray offered wearily, like nothing else important had happened. He gestured to the bag in Jared’s hand that, at any other moment, might have effectively diverted Gerard’s attention and prevented a lot of clucking and fussing, but not now.  
  
"I’ll bring you a tray in a minute," Gerard told him, ignoring Jared and shooing Ray down the hall toward his bedroom. "You have to rest. Do you need to get cleaned up first?"  
  
"No, it was just a little one."  
  
Meaning his seizure, Jared supposed. _A little one?_  
  
"I’ll put this in the kitchen," Jared offered, shifting the takeout bag in his hand, but he doubted either one of them actually heard him. Their backs were already to him as they disappeared into Ray’s room bickering gently about Gerard’s over-protectiveness. "You don’t need to hover," Ray was complaining. "Somebody has to keep an eye on you," Gerard responded with an air of exasperated authority. "Well, it doesn’t need to be you," Ray informed him gruffly.  
  
Then, just before the door closed behind them, Ray added, "Don’t tell my brother," and his voice held a hint of urgency.  
  
That was the last thing Jared remembered hearing before he found himself standing alone in the hall, suddenly conscious of the thin, stretched-out sensation time can have in the aftermath of a crisis. Like, the feeling that the world is standing utterly still. By now Jared was all too familiar with the idea that the clock of his life was broken, and that he’d unwillingly become the prisoner of one day's events in and unfinished story. That he was more-or-less frozen in a single moment of time.

And then, while he was in the middle of thinking about all that, Jared heard the barely audible scrape of Ray's doorknob twisting, and the click of the latch falling into place. That was when he remembered he'd planned to call Shannon after his doctor’s appointment, just to let him know how things were going.

And he would, too. But not yet. First he needed some time to think about what he wanted to say, and how he was going to say it. He wanted a chance to fortify himself, to prepare. So, after they ate, maybe.  
  
He drew a deep breath and released it in a sigh, feeling like at some point during the afternoon, he’d forgotten all about breathing and the human body's need for air. Distractedly, he let his footsteps carry him down the hall toward the back of the house, and into the kitchen where he began unpacking dinner. As he reached for the tamales, sliding his splinted hand under the Styrofoam container, he instantly felt something sticky and wet squishing against the tips of his exposed fingers. Huh. Even in all that turmoil and commotion, the only thing they’d managed to fumble was the guacamole, which lay half spilled in the bottom of the bag. Absentmindedly, Jared licked a bit of it off his gloved hand while surveying the minimal damage. Hmm, not bad.  
  
But. There was still an awful lot of silence coming from the direction of Ray’s room, and if someone had asked Jared just yesterday what he thought about the situation between Gerard and Ray, Jared probably would have told them he was pretty sure Gerard's particular variety of affection for their other roommate was one-sided. But now he wasn’t sure what to think.

Except, whatever the deal might be, it was not without its own legacy of faithfulness and trust.

Truthfully, he didn't want to eat his meal alone. Maybe now would be a good time to call Shannon after all, he decided. Because at that precise moment, all Jared really wanted and wanted badly, was to hear the sound of his brother’s voice. He grabbed his beans and rice and reached for his phone, hitting speed dial before he could give himself a chance to reconsider. Before he could get caught up in that endless internal debate, _"call… don't call"_ that would only result in another delay. As he waited, listening to Shannon’s phone ringing on the other end, he could feel his throat beginning to tighten. _Shannon, it's me, pick up, pick up._ I know it's selfish of me, he was thinking, but I just have to know one thing -- that you'll still be there waiting for me when I'm finally ready to need you again.

 

 

\---------

  
  
Shannon waits for Jared’s call with the anxious zen of a man who has much earlier in life conquered the worst of his addictions. All except this one which he will never overcome and never outgrow.  
  
But, he has finally learned to let go and wait for Jared to come to him in his own time. Chiefly because he’s had to. It’s a bitter pill, but possibly the only remedy, and for his brother’s sake he’s determined to take the medicine. Jared needs to learn how to be on his own and feel safe again. Shannon needs to learn how to let Jared be on his own and believe he can be safe. Ever. Again.  
  
As if. It’s a concept that defies Shannon’s sense of emotional logic, and what’s been the worst part of all is this: now there’s irrefutable proof, Jared on his own is not safe, people do try to hurt him, and sometimes they succeed. Sometimes the world of creative possibility hides a corrosive, destructive end. Under the circumstances, constant vigilance seems to be the only reasonable response a person could make, and yet very likely it’s Shannon’s inability to let go and let Jared breathe that has driven his brother to the other side of the country. More than anything in this life, Jared needs his freedom. Shannon knows that, he understands, but right now it seems like what Jared needs most is freedom from _him_. And the hurt Shannon feels over that is indescribable, even as he tells himself that's not precisely the whole truth of the matter. What Jared really needs is to be free from _fear_.  
  
Shannon knows Jared is afraid, and that single fact has been one of the most terrifying things about the entire situation. Knowing that his brother is nearly paralyzed by his own fears and the crippling, destructive awareness of his vulnerability, and that’s not even mentioning the damaging physical effects of the acid on his hand and face. Shannon knows how Jared hides in that westside apartment and can’t seem to bring himself to face the world beyond the sanctuary of its handicapped activated door controls. He knows Jared's entire perspective on life has shrunk down to something no bigger than the patch of floor he can fix his eyes on beneath the bowed head of his hoodie. It’s a daily battle for Shannon not to get on the next available east bound flight just to be there with him, so he can watch over his little brother. To cover those flayed, curled fingers and proud flesh with his own strong hands, and to do things for Jared that he no longer has the will to do for himself. And to take care of him.  
  
But, to be honest, Jared’s fears multiplied by Shannon’s would very likely only lead to the exponential explosion of their combined paranoia and anxiety. It’s not hard to do the math on that one, which is why -- and probably the only reason why -- Shannon is still in L.A.  
  
Tomo comes over to the house to move around some equipment in the Lab. He’s switching out an old audio interface and replacing some studio monitors Jared had talked about upgrading before everything went to hell in Chicago. So now here’s Tomo doing it on his own. Shannon suspects it’s the only way he can think of right now to stay connected. Jared hasn’t made the effort to keep in touch with anybody while he’s been in New York, and these days Shannon has no idea what to tell people when they ask about the future of the band. Not even the record label.

So, yeah, here’s Tomo puttering around downstairs, cursing his scraped knuckles and obviously acting out his own need to "fix" things with Jared somehow, because this is pretty much the only avenue available to him. Shannon totally gets it. Better than anybody. He lets Tomo do whatever he wants, because we all do what we gotta do.  
  
And whatever else Shannon knows, or doesn’t know about the future, the one thing he is fairly certain of is Jared hasn’t entirely given up on the idea of _having_ a future of one sort or another. He’s just not ready or capable yet of setting his feet on the path of a new direction. He still can’t look up and see. So Shannon waits for that call that may or may not be coming today, or tomorrow. He leaves the door open. He hopes, and he prays in his own way. He goes down to the Lab where Tomo’s working and plays a few notes, a few chords, on one of Jared’s guitars so they can check the system balance. Their new speakers give even those simple sounds a special, deeper tone and warmth. The look on Tomo’s face questions him and Shannon nods silently. All will be made ready. All in good time.

This is how he keeps the faith.

\--stop--


	8. Recovering a sense of Strength (Step 7)

He has a new medical therapy.

Today, at the Burn Center, they took away his pressure bandages and showed Shannon how to apply the silicone sheets to his scars. If Jared had known in advance this was what was going to happen, he probably would have told Shannon to wait for him back at the apartment and brought Ray with him instead. Like usual. Too late, he found himself perched on the end of an examining table, stripped of his shirt with his feet dangling, hunched over in a daze of self-consciousness, feeling ambushed and exposed. The nurse in attendance was the same ordinarily sensible guy who had worked with Jared before. Friendly and all, only today he was so charmed to meet Shannon, Jared’s older brother, he was practically chirping. Not quite like he was flirting with him exactly, but still, all the fawning and the sound of that lilting, animated voice had been enough to set Jared’s teeth on edge anyway.

More than likely, he realized, this was just the first opportunity the staff had had to put one and one together. Jared ‘Metrejon’ and his brother Shannon _Leto_.

Unfortunately, Jared was hardly in the mood to be indulgent. His nerves had already been worn to a frazzle thanks to nothing more challenging than the cab ride it took to get them there, however uneventful things may have seemed to the casual observer. There he’d been, huddled together with Shannon in the taxi’s backseat with only their delicate silence to separate them. It had been a virtual reenactment of Jared’s worst reoccurring nightmare -- his brother anxiously eyeing him over surreptitiously from beneath the brim of his hat, while just outside the window at Jared’s shoulder, the city lurched by dizzily in bursts of stops and starts.

And now, here was Shannon wincing at the sight of his scared flesh, fingers shuddering every time they touched him, concentrating so hard Jared could hear the strain of it in his uneven breathing. Hold, pause, release. Hold and pause, and finally, relief. "That’s fine," the nurse had said brightly, complimenting Shannon’s work when they’d finished.

Experimentally, Jared flexed his hand and the clear bandage puckered, but it stayed stuck. His last three fingers still wouldn’t uncurl completely, though, and that he knew was a problem the silicone couldn’t help.

Then, he’d been given a hand mirror, which he peered into hesitantly inspecting the mottled flesh on the left side of his face. A quick glance was more than enough. Covered in the protective sheeting he looked plastic and shiny, splotched and veined, like a statue made from some morbidly bloody color of marble. This was the part Jared had made the nurse do himself, while turning aside from Shannon’s disquieting stare. Applying the silicone, he was reassured, is probably nothing Jared won’t be able to manage alone, one-handed. But patient compliance with the long course of burn recovery regimens is generally low, he was told. It’s uncomfortable, it’s inconvenient and time consuming. People tend to slack off. So, his nurse confided conspiratorially, part of the strategy to keep him on track was getting Shannon involved.

Clearly, Jared mused silently, they had no idea how over-involved Shannon was already. Or, why Jared had felt it necessary for him to remain in Los Angeles all this time. Or, for that matter, how motivated Jared was himself to get the most out of his recovery as quickly as possible. Even given the fact that he never _never_ expects to appear anywhere as a public figure ever again. Not in this life.

He was also given a tube of silicone gel he could use on the places where the sheets might not fit well, or be too awkward. Or if he found them distracting. Like, when he’s doing his occupational therapy and needs a full range of motion. Or, when he goes out. Maybe he’ll want a look that’s more natural.

Seriously, _"natural"_? Jared could hardly believe anyone would have the nerve to use that word about his looks. But there it was, still echoing in the examining room air, stark and naked as Jared’s chest and with all the finesse of the proverbial nine hundred pound gorilla. Plus, his nurse added smoothly, they want him doing more things like normal again. And for the first time in a very long and generally self-effacing period of time, Jared suddenly had the impulse to demand, very pointedly, had they not figured out yet who he really was? Because he was pretty damn sure they had, so let’s put the pretenses to rest, shall we? Realistically, then, precisely which part of his "normal" life did they imagine him resuming? Since personally, Jared wasn’t seeing it.

He never actually said any of that, though.

This is the angry phase of his recovery and he knows it, he’s been keeping his appointments with his counselor, Mary, faithfully. But he gets frustrated. He gets scared. Some days it’s too much and too overwhelming, and then he realizes how insanely hard it is not to take things out on the people who are trying their best to help him. The ones who don’t deserve it. Even when he understands the dynamics and knows what’s going on, sometimes it’s all he can do not to scream and throw things.

The other part is, they want him to keep moving. Hard to do when most days it’s about all Jared can manage to simply sit around his apartment in that same arrested state of shock he’s been in for months now. It hasn’t worn off yet. Showering, shaving, figuring out what to wear, dressing himself, feeding himself, these are the kinds of problems that absorb all his energy. Once he’s brushed his teeth, there’s practically nothing left of his fortitude to marshal for facing the rest of the day. Let alone leaving the house. He just can’t.

Meanwhile, his physical therapist has been switching up his routines, and giving him new exercises to do for his hand so he won’t get bored and quit. Which helps, but no matter what it always hurts, and some days Jared cannot seem to see the worth of it given the meager results he gets versus the enormity of his disfigurement. He’s so tired and discouraged, all he wants to do is give up. He definitely has some contracture that’s not responding. It’s obvious he’ll never play music again. So finally, his doctor has suggested the judicious use of corticosteroid shots, and a surgical re-evaluation.

That’s when he called Shannon. He knew having a surgery, even a little bitty one, without sending for Shannon would be the last straw.

"He’ll come storming across the country and swarm over the ramparts," he’d told Mary, throwing his hands up over his head in a gesture that suggested right about where he felt the water line was that day. That’s what he was afraid of. Shannon, in a white heat and a blind fury at the world, charging back into Jared’s life with his anxiety radiating off of him like gamma rays.

"Sounds pretty lethal," Mary had said. And yeah, Jared thought, exactly. Tough-minded, vigilant, overprotective, Shannon would come roaring down on him still struggling to bear the weight of his own guilt and his own scars, and some too vulnerable part of Jared wouldn’t survive. He’s not strong enough yet. Mary wasn’t pressing him, though. "You’ll call him when you’re ready," she’d replied with remarkable calm. Or, Jared figured, I’ll end up calling when something happens and I can’t put it off any longer. It’s a process, she keeps telling him, work the process.

After that appointment, he’d been standing in the elevator with Ray, going down, when he’d realized he was finally ready. Or, as ready as he could be. "I need to call my brother when we get home," he’d said, trying out the words for the first time. They’d ricocheted off those tiny walls like shrapnel, faster than he could snatch them back and put them safely away again. It felt like a brush with death, it felt as if his life had nearly tumbled out of his control again, exactly the same as that fateful day in Chicago.

"That’s good," Ray had answered, unruffled and unaware of the bullet that had barely been dodged. He’d turned to face Jared with the slightest quirk of a smile, and said, "Gerard’s been wanting to get a look at him. Are you going to ask him to come for a visit?"

So now, days later, Shannon’s sitting on the edge of Jared’s bed next to him, rubbing silicone gel into the skin on the back of his drawn and ruddy left hand. His touch is gentle, confident, and a lot less tentative than the first time at the doctor’s office, and his breathing is silent and steady. He’s not flinching from his task. It occurs to Jared his brother thinks he’s finally figured out how to apply the balm in a way that won’t end up doing more harm than good. With just enough firmness, but not too much, and just the right amount of tenderness and time. He’s taking his time. It’s the perfect metaphor for a man whose actions always make better arguments than when he tries to use words.

Shannon wants to help him, not hurt him, and Jared understands, but even he doesn’t know what the perfect alchemy for that will turn out to be. Almost day to day it seems like it changes. Shannon’s touch is hypnotic, though, as his thumb curls around each knuckle and slides smoothly over the ridges of bones. Jared’s been cringing from human contact for so long he’s forgotten how much he needs it. Minutes after Shannon’s work is done, he continues to hold Jared’s hand in his own. He’s not letting go.

Then, in a quiet voice, he asks, "Do you need me to stay?"

Jared can hear the carefully tempered tone, the conscious lack of expectation. Shannon’s asking to stay the night, Jared knows, in his room and in his bed. But there are some things he isn’t ready to face, literally _face_ , yet. Even in the dark.

"The walls are thin…" he mutters, and his thought trails off aimlessly. His brother will understand he’s asking for privacy. Won’t he? And patience, and just a little more time, please Shannon.

"We don’t have to make any noise," Shannon whispers, not without a touch of humor.

Jared grins in spite of himself. "We won’t _need_ to make any noise," he tells him. "Not with Gerard in the house." They could lie there all night as still and silent as the grave, and in the morning the outcome will be the same. Gerard, glancing at them sidelong with lascivious fascination. Jared is certain of it. And he just can’t.

"Alright." Shannon leans back and lets go of Jared’s hand, disappointed, but trying to keep the mood between them light and free of pressure. He’s rising to his feet and getting ready to go back to his hotel before it gets "too late," while Jared’s wrestling with his ambivalence and wondering if he made the right decision.

"You’re coming back in the morning for breakfast though, right?" Jared thinks he suddenly sounds like a child begging for reassurance.

"Or, I can pick you up and we can go out for something to eat, if you’re feeling brave."

Right, normal life. But, oh God. "Lemme think about it, okay? Call me in the morning?"

"Will do," Shannon nods. He grabs for his hat that’s been hanging on the bed post, and his phone so he can call for a cab.

When it arrives, Jared follows him into the front hallway where Shannon stops him and holds him by the shoulders. He leans forward and presses his lips to the corner of Jared’s mouth on the undamaged side of his face, saying goodbye. His whisper tickles over Jared’s cheek in a warm rush of breath, and the movement of his lips traces a sensuous pattern that ends in a soft, off-center kiss. Gratefully, Jared kisses back, thankful for this careful start.

Small steps make the journey.

\--stop--


	9. Recovering a Sense of Compassion (Step 8)

The first time Tomo got a chance to see Jared after the assault he’d already been on the hospital burn unit for a few days. Up until then, Shannon had been encouraging Tomo to head home with the others, and no guilt tripping. Just, “Go back to LA,” he’d told him, putting the brakes on any potential drama, “’cause we’re gonna need somebody there.” Someone at home base with a credible level of authority who could be reassuring. And at the moment, Shannon’s hands were kinda full. He’d also said Jared wasn’t really up to visitors yet anyway, but he figured as soon as Jared was alert and could get his good hand on his phone again, he’d be texting everyone incessantly, like always.  
  
No doubt. But, it was something about the way Shannon had said “good hand” that made Tomo dig in his heels. Yeah, he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d seen Jared, and Jared had seen him, face to face. For Tomo, it was a thing about keeping faith, and loyalty. It was personal.  
  
The nursing staff had greeted him warmly and prepped him for the visit by mummifying him in sterile hospital garb and warning him in advance not to be too alarmed about Jared’s level of consciousness. He’d probably be drifting in and out, and the reason for that was simple. Whenever they needed to do his wound care, they would dose him up really good ahead of time against the pain.  
  
As it happened, Tomo had arrived in the afternoon just as they were finishing debriding Jared’s burns, so when he’d first walked into the room all gowned and gloved and antiseptic looking, Jared had rolled his head to the side lolling his one good eye up at him suspiciously. And it wasn’t hard at all for Tomo to catch the unguarded glimmer of dread in his gaze.  
  
Obviously, Jared was so out of it, he didn’t know if they were done yet, or only getting started. Or, if this was some new, unexpected horror arrived unannounced.  
  
“S’ okay,” Tomo had smiled behind his mask. “They’re all finished, buddy. It just me.” “Tomo,” he added after an instant of hesitation.  
  
Jared was squinting at him and screwing up the right side of his face as if he hoped peering through a half-closed eyelid might make the apparition before him look more like something familiar. Only, without much success.  
  
“You’re lying,” Jared mumbled.  
  
“No, dude. It’s really me,” Tomo said, forcing a laugh and fighting to keep his tone cheerful. “Don’t you recognize my voice?” Shannon had tried to prepare him, but… this was intense.  
  
There was a thoughtful pause while Jared blinked woozily, then suddenly relaxed. “Yeah,” he breathed, his unbandaged eye closing. An instant later he was slipping away into sleep. Another moment after that his gauze covered left hand fluttered restlessly against the bed rail as he fought the effects of the narcotic.  
  
“Tomo?” he called out, straining to stay conscious.  
  
“Right here.” Gingerly, Tomo placed a glove hand on Jared’s forearm. Even with the safety of latex, it was hard to know where it would be okay to touch him.  
  
“I thought you were gone, too,” Jared whispered, while his eyes struggled open and his stare traced a wayward path across the ceiling. “They’re all gone,” he added urgently, slurring his words whenever the tip of his tongue poked curiously at the numb side of his mouth. “I watched them go… fly away. Big and black… shadows,” he paused, like he’d lost the train of his thought.  
  
That was the drugs talking, Tomo reassured himself. “Well, I’m still here. Couldn’t leave without seeing you.” He leaned deliberately over the bedside directly into Jared’s sightline.  
  
“Oh!” Jared looked startled. “What did you do to your hair?”  
  
“Nothing,” Tomo laughed. “They made me cover it under this scrub cap.” He’d reached under the elastic band for a single lock he could pull out so Jared could see.  
  
“Your hair,” Jared wailed softly.  
  
“It’s fine, it’s still there…” Tomo had tried to soothe him.  
  
“Your beautiful hair…” The space between Jared’s brows was pinched with distress. He sounded like he was about to start crying. My hair? Tomo was thinking. This had to be some side-effect of the medication, like, some kind of intoxicated state Jared was winding himself up into highly suggestive of drunk tears.  
  
“Yeah, it happens,” Shannon told him later. “He’ll probably remember you were here, but he may or may not remember anything you said to one another.”  
  
Tomo had headed back to the hotel telling himself he’d have to be content with that. He’d gathered up his belongings still wrestling with a deep, disturbing sense of all the unfinished business between them. But at least Jared would know he’d been there for him, and that he intended to keep right on being there.  
  
And yet, all the way home on the flight to Los Angeles, he had to keep fighting the feeling that it was “goodbye".  
  
\---------  
  
“I didn’t know whether to bring you here, or not,” Shannon says and there’s an uncertain note of apology in his voice. “I thought about it and…” He’s been watching Jared move cautiously around his hotel room, gazing into every corner as if snakes might suddenly appear without warning. “…I just didn’t know.”  
  
Shannon fidgets and fights the urge to take off his jacket, because they might not be staying after all. Before his accident, Jared used to like the Bowery Hotel, but he hasn’t been back since. When Shannon first came to New York, he began using this room as his home base. It’s been comforting, cocooning himself the familiarity of one of Jared’s favorite room; it’s been his touchstone, his waystation between what was and what is, tying the two halves of his life together -- before and after. But now, seeing his brother’s hesitancy, it just seems like a rude invasion of the past. Everything about Jared’s stiffness suggests the anguish of a life trapped in amber. He creeps toward the bed in slow motion. Shannon’s not even sure his brother has heard a single word that he’s said.  
  
“Bad idea?”  
  
“No, I…” Jared offers, but can’t seem to finish his thought. Even after all these months he still has no clue how to reconcile himself with how things used to be, and all his losses. It’s so hard revisiting the spaces that harbor haunting visions of his own ghost; like here, like now.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Shannon says. Because, obviously, he’s misjudged the situation. His voice is heavy with the weight of this latest setback and all the guilt he still carries deep inside, and Jared can hear every bit of it bubbling up like stale air breaking the surface of still water.  
  
“I know,” he answers softly. “And you can stop now. None of this is your fault.” He lowers himself down gingerly, taking a seat on the side of the mattress. “It was never your fault.”  
  
Had he forgotten to say that before? Has he really been that self-absorbed? Because it needs to be said, and said often until Shannon hears it and believes it. Suddenly Jared feels acutely aware of all the things that have gone unexpressed between them. And he knows it will take more than words to break their silence.  
  
“Can we order some tea?” he asks quietly. “I’d like tea. Chamomile, maybe?” Mostly because he finally understands Shannon needs something to do so he can feel like he’s helping, not hurting. And also because, at last, Jared is ready to accept that help.  
  
“Yeah, sure.” The relief he hears in his brother’s voice breaks his heart a little. All this time Jared has been running away from Shannon’s brokenness, too afraid of the depths of its fear and loss. Long, silent months ago, he'd abandoned Shannon to the blackness of his own pain and self-recrimination, believing if he had stayed in LA they would have drowned together in the mirror of Shannon’s helplessness. There were demons in Shannon’s darkness, and Jared knew them well. Even so, he’d left his brother to struggle with them alone. It had been a dangerous thing to do.  
  
Shannon’s on the phone ordering tea, chamomile specifically, and also mint, with honey, lemon, ginger sugar… “You want some strawberries? Or fruit? Or the apple tart?”  
  
Jared pauses, thinking. The instant he does, Shannon turns and asks into the receiver, “You still have croissants?” He’ll order the whole menu, Jared realizes, if he doesn’t say something to stop him.  
  
“Chocolate cake?” Jared ventures hopefully. “They have this chocolate cake on the dessert menu…”  
  
“Right,” Shannon looks up grinning, like, how could he forget? He orders the cake, two servings.  
  
It’s in the physicality of things, Jared reminds himself, the nearness and the doing, that Shannon finds healing.  
  



End file.
